


A Comfortable Regard

by esteefee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to <i>Foe</i>. John was forced to kill the man in front of his ex-wife, his daughter. In front of Finch.</p><p>On top of the torture, it really wasn't his best day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Comfortable Regard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [April_Valentine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Comfortable Regard (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477315) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> Thanks to [lzqsk](http://lzqsk.livejournal.com/) for the translation!
> 
> And thanks to justspaz and deadlymistress for the canon help!

_Kohl: They took everything I had. But part of me survived. It was her._

 

Kohl's words stayed with John as he waited for the cops to clear out with the body before leaving the park himself, keeping to the shadowed trails where none of the park lights could penetrate. Back on Fifth, despite the late hour and the persistent ache and scattered tingles of fire in his shoulder and fingertips—courtesy of Kohl's wicked needles—John found his feet pointing in the direction of the library.

Wrap-up, John told himself. Tying up loose ends. Just making sure Anja and the girl had gotten home safely; it would be nice to hear it from Finch directly. 

The shot had been clean. Kohl had left him no choice, had intended to leave him no choice, and John resented being used as a means for the man's suicide in front of his wife and daughter. In front of Finch.

Not that Finch didn't know what John was capable of. But seeing it happen instead of hearing it or reading about it was something else entirely.

John shook his head sharply and then slapped his hand onto his neck at the burn of pain. He'd have to factor in this injury if they got another number before he recovered. Some ice would help. There was ice at the library.

He grabbed a cab heading south.

:::

"I didn't expect to see you again tonight, Mr. Reese." Finch didn't look over from where he was taking down the remains of their latest investigation. 

"Just checking in. Did Anja and Marie get home safely?"

Finch paused and looked down, head canted slightly toward John. "Yes. Of course. They're...fine."

"Right." As fine as a woman could be who'd had her ex-husband rise out of the past to threaten her, as a young girl could be to discover her father was an assassin. As they both could possibly be to see the man shot in front of them. 

John sighed silently. "I came to swap out weapons." 

"Oh, of course. But that could have waited."

"Not really." Now that he'd killed with it, he couldn't carry it. The weapon had to be destroyed. A pity. He had a replacement ready, of course, an identical Sig Sauer P226R waiting on the high shelf with his other arms where he'd moved them after a minor smoke grenade incident that had put Harold in a tizzy.

John smiled a little as he took the Sig over to the table with his cleaning supplies and started to strip it. Once he had it in pieces, he leaned back in his chair and pulled on a pair of latex gloves and wiped it down methodically, piece by piece, from barrel, magazine, extractor, to even the ejector pin. In spite of the fact it all would be melted down in a furnace, there was no telling what would happen between here and there. Each moment was an uncertainty.

His neck throbbed and he lifted his head to find Finch seated on the other side of the table, distaste painting his features.

John cursed himself for his singular insensitivity and fumbled the slide he'd just finished wiping down. It tumbled from his fingers, and as he drew back his arm to catch it his elbow connected sharply with the edge of the filing cabinet behind him.

Pain struck an instant later, ringing through him like a tuning fork, and suddenly he was _there_ , both there and here. He was in Anja's apartment, his arms bound to a chair. He could taste the cotton dishcloth in his mouth. Distantly, though, he knew was still in the library, but the overwhelming sensation of pain in his elbow drew his arms back, folded his hands into fists, brought tears to his eyes as he shuddered through Kohl's manipulations.

John gathered words he could say instead of the ones he shouldn't, just in case, because this was bad, very bad. The needle hurt worse coming out than going in, as if there were a barb on the end.

_"Mr. Reese."_

He wasn't Kara's Reese; if he had been, he would have pulled the trigger when Kohl made his move. But John had hesitated briefly, already sympathetic, and so here he was in the chair while the white hot needle dug into his skin, into bone it felt like, dragging pain with it, excruciating, intimate—

"John." Someone touched his shoulder, and suddenly his left hand was free. He reached up, gripped, squeezed hard. The voice came again. "John, stop."

Finch had released him. That was Finch underneath this. John let him go and eased out a trembling breath. His right arm was still rigid, trapped behind the chairback as if tied. He was tied, but he wasn't. If he bent his arm, he would know it.

Bending it hurt, but he did so now, pulling it in front of his body, blinking at the light of the library's lamp, not the sunlight of Anja's dining room. The pieces of his gun were in front of him on the table.

His face was wet.

"Sorry about that, Finch," John said. "Hit my funny bone."

"Funny bone," Finch said dryly. He didn't leave John's side.

"Yeah. It could use some ice." John started to get up and found he couldn't, just yet.

"I'll just see if we have some in the freezer." Finch touched his shoulder again before walking away.

John swiped his forearm across his cheeks and then bent to pick up the missing slide. It was the last of the pieces, so he gathered them all in the towel, folded it up, and then pulled off his gloves.

By the time he heard Finch's footsteps returning he felt better. Settled. Just a flashback. Not surprising. He'd gotten it under control. 

But what had Finch seen? 

"Here you go," Finch said, and handed him something blue and soft and cold. "It's a gel pack," Finch said, looking somewhat abashed. "From my personal stash."

"Thanks, Finch." John folded it in half and set it on the table, then pressed his elbow into it. The relief was sharp and profound. "God, that's good," he said, then closed his eyes, embarrassed.

"What happened today?" Finch sounded strained.

"Hmm?" John hoped he wouldn't pursue it.

"You heard me. I lost contact with you. Detective Fusco told me he had to scare Kohl off and untie you from a chair."

"Things got...complicated. But it all worked out in the end."

"For a peculiar definition."

John pressed his lips together. "You're not satisfied with my performance."

"Oh, please. I'm not an idiot. I know redirection when I'm hearing it."

John opened his eyes and found Finch had ducked behind his computer screen and was typing away. "What are you doing?"

"I'm writing up my notes."

"On? The case?"

Finch raised his head and gave him an enigmatic look.

Not the case then. John sighed. "He had needles. He wanted to know where Anja was. I don't take kindly to coercion."

Finch's mouth twisted.

"I'm fine, Finch. Did I...say something? When I had my flashback?" It was foggy now, but Finch was still acting strange. 

"You grabbed my wrist. Painfully, I might add."

"I'm sorry." John couldn't imagine hurting Finch intentionally. "You'd better stay away from me next time."

Finch slammed his palm down on the table with a _thump_. "I will not." He adjusted his glasses, turning away. "I wouldn't be able to bear watching you, knowing what you were experiencing, hearing you make those...sounds."

"Finch," John said helplessly. All right, then. No more flashbacks in front of Harold. "Thank you," John said finally. His elbow felt much better, he realized, and he took the gel pack and switched it to his neck, slipping it under his collar so it rested where Kohl had inserted his deadly needles.

Finch looked over, his eyes keen.

John jerked his chin at the gun bundled on the desk. "I'll put that in the usual place."

Finch nodded, a faint look of satisfaction on his face.

John had had it all wrong, he realized, and he leaned back, letting the ice do its work, letting the familiar sound of Finch's typing lull him into a daze.

He was comfortable here, under Finch's regard.

 

_End._


End file.
